Dijon, France

Dear Devon,

I think I was meant to be Dijionnaise. I mean, I was meant to be a girl from Dijon, not a squeeze-bottle of mayonnaise mixed with mustard. I came to this conclusion somewhere between Dijon's bustling weekly market and its labyrinthine streets. Much smaller than Paris, Dijon still managed to turn my navigational sense upside down. An indelible mark of its days as a Medieval city, Dijon's twisting streets charmed this visitor, who quickly abandoned the map and used its patisseries and fromageries for landmarks. A town whose butchers will discuss the finer points of roasting a pork loin (while three people wait in line) has its priorities in the right place.

One of my favorite shops in town was Le Chalet Comtois, an amazing cheese shop. The paper bags from this shop proudly announce its lineage: P. Rouaud, successeur de Robert Perrot, Maistre Fromager. Cheese production and sale is considered a highly respected artisanal trade, of which your reputation depends on where one holds an apprecenticeship. The friendly lady who assisted us went into great detail regarding an array of Epoisses. M. Brilliat-Savarin dubbed it "the king of cheeses," but my tasting notes read, like licking the wet rafters of a hundred-year-old barn. She lead us around the shop, delighting us with bizarre details including how the production of semi-hard cheese from the Pyrenees region was hampered by bears.

Everyone knows Dijon for its mustard. Before I arrived here, I thought it was more clever marketing than an essential Burgundian ingredient. To my surprise, mustard as a blatant consumer product was largely absent, but mustard, its intense, musty, nose-clearing, and creamy taste was everywhere. For many Americans, mustard is the thick neon yellow substance that squirts out in even lines on a hot dog. To the Dijonnais, mustard and its seeds are a subtle background flavor in salads, an herby, earthy contrast to fresh cheese, or a stringent sauce against a rich steak. I have always been a fan of mustard, or at least what I knew mustard to be, but I have to admit that I never realized its potential. In Dijon, it infused the food like soy sauce in Chinese cooking. It simply appeared everywhere, in savory baked goods, integrated into sauces and marinades, mixed into mashed potatoes, and of course as a condiment.

One assumes that a region's prized product is to be found in its highest form at the source. Of course the mustard is good. But how good is it? Riding the train back to Paris, I realized that for my entire life, I had eaten an over-vinegared, brash, and oily third cousin of the nuanced and wonderfully pungent Dijon mustard. A quick look in my fridge upon returning to New York confirmed my suspicion. My jar of mustard, proudly proclaimed as Dijon mustard, was actually made in Illinois. I've been to Illinois. Their mustard fields don't look like the ones that line the hillsides and the highways of Burgundy.

I am dying to try to recreate some of the dishes I tasted in Burgundy. But in the meantime, enjoy these photos of Dijon's market.